by H. A. Fowler
There were many emotions roiling in his blood as he watched his Intimate sleep—pity, of course, that she had been so lonely she'd inadvertently torn her entire reality asunder to find relief. Anger that her friend dared call herself ‘Witch’ and yet had such little regard for her power or the welfare of her friend. Some apprehension over what the council was bound to say now that he'd spent a full day flaunting his violation of the vows. Satisfaction after the finest meal and most intense coupling he'd ever experienced.
But mostly he felt the warm, liquid comfort of what he dared to imagine might be love. He had never felt it before—the deep need to protect, to possess, to share, to bring joy, to see, feel and hear all that the lover was and could be, now so elemental that he no longer doubted the drive was carved in his very cells. The intensity frightened him. He was a man who liked to control his surroundings. Who liked comfort and routine of careful making, and resisted change if he could. His former partner and lover, the succubus Michaela, had contrived to steal his will, make him her slave, and he had fought any such closeness with ferocity ever since.
Until Kimber Andrews tumbled into his life. Now all was changing, and he could hardly remember why he'd fought so hard against it before.
He traced the lines and curves of her sweet face—the big eyes closed now in sleep, deep gold lashes fanned across her generous cheeks. Her ample mouth pouted softly even as it smiled, leaving him to wonder what she dreamed. She was indeed the loveliest lass he'd ever seen, or had the honor to touch. Such a shy lady, and yet such a passionate, creative lover. She had shown him miracles of a woman's body he had never imagined. Perhaps it was in part because of the magick that bound them. As his Intimate, she could plumb unexplored depths of her sexuality, and he his, to keep each another satisfied until the end of time.
Mother Nature was, after all, a very thorough designer.
With a crack and a whiff of sulfur, he popped out of his apartment, and reappeared at the center of the Mortis Guardia Court. Ranged before him were the high thrones of the Council, their faces hidden in shadow, though the air carried an unmistakable air of disapproval. Not in small part, he was sure, because he was without a stitch of clothing. Hart had grown to manhood in a land where nudity was considered natural, and he harbored no shame toward his body. If the council didn't share that philosophy, it wasn't his problem. He braced his feet apart, hands locked behind his back, and stood tall and proud in a warrior's stance to await their judgement.
As was traditional, all the Councilors spoke in a deep, powerful chorus. One voice for all.
"Hart Campbell. You are called before this Court to answer charges that you have violated the First Vow against fraternization with your mortal charge, Kimber Andrews. How do you answer?"
"Guilty, my lords.” There was no point in arguing, considering how he had arrived before them, naked and no doubt redolent of passionate sex and the warm musk of Kimber's essence.
There was a low rustle and murmur of voices as some unseen crowd in the shadows behind him considered the implication of his words.
"You offer no defense?” the Council's voice asked.
"No, Sirs."
"Are you willing to recant your violation and put aside this woman?"
"No, Sirs.” The mixture of warm certainty and cold anxiety as he said it aloud caused a thin sheen of sweat to break out over his body.
"If you are unwilling to end your relationship with your charge, the Council is left with no alternative but to strip you of your status and powers as Guardian."
He hadn't considered that, and for a moment, hesitated. What good would it do to love Kimber only to have her die because he couldn't protect her adequately without his Guardian powers?
Ultimately, he realized, it didn't matter. “Whether I would choose to forsake her is now beyond my control. She is my Intimate, and I can do no other but to take my place at her side. If I deny her, I would never again be whole."
The Councilors mumbled, debating the issue.
"If that is so, then, you, Hart Campbell, are in violation of your vows as Mortis Guardia, and are therefore unfit to bear the crest of Guardian. You are relieved of duty, effective immediately."
A table of black marble appeared before him, and his sword and Guardian medallion materialized in his hands, brought by the Council's magick. He stared at them for a moment, three hundred years of duty and honor flashing before his eyes. But the last thing he saw was the sweet mossy green of Kimber's eyes, filled with desire and affection for him. He would sacrifice this and more to keep her, if he must. He set the items on the table without another hesitation, and stepped back. His magick dissipated like the break of barometric pressure in the wake of a storm, telling him he was no longer a Guardian.
"May the gods go with you, Hart Campbell,” the Council chorused, and he was suddenly standing beside his bed once more.
His empty bed.
Hart glanced around the chamber. “Kimber?"
He didn't find her in the screened bath area, or out of his sight in the plush cushions of the couch. Her scent was strong in the room, and he wondered how that could be if she'd left.
His mind froze as his eyes settled on the floor at the foot of the dais upon which stood his bed. A speckle of Kimber's blood quivered there—he knew its smell as well as his own. A few inches away lay another drop. Then another, and another ... soon he saw that there was a trail of his beloved's precious essence from the bed all the way to the outer door of his chamber. He spun back and saw a smear of it along the side of the bed curtains, as though she'd been dragged from her slumber and carried away.
Bleeding. The scent of her hung heavy in the air, and he drew a deep breath to see if there was any olfactory clue of what fiend had stolen her.
Horror rushed through him as the scents spoke. For a moment, he thought, impossible! But as he recalled the loss of his magick when he surrendered his tools, he knew what had happened. He also knew that the trail of blood led directly to a trap that may well spell his death.
With a snarl, he drew the claymore from the sheath he kept wedged beneath the mattress, and set out to follow the trail of deadly breadcrumbs left behind by his resurrected enemy.
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Chapter Five
Kimber would have thought she was dead, if she didn't hurt so much. With great trepidation, she opened her eyes, and found herself in a dark, dank cave, with the monster she'd never thought to see again.
Dirk van Attempted Rapist was standing with his back to her, bent over what looked an awful lot like the stone altars she always saw in movies. The ones where wizards chained up their human sacrifices and plunged big, ugly knives into their hearts while cackling with vicious glee.
"Eep,” she commented. He turned, and she was struck yet again at how pretty he was. But now that she'd seen the true beauty inside Hart, she noticed the cold, hard edge to Dirk's good looks. The frigid blue evil in his eyes stung her, and she wished with all her might that Hart would just appear and save her, as he always seemed to do.
"Hello, little human,” Dirk drawled, ambling toward her with the huge, ugly dagger she'd been dreading in one large hand. “I'm glad you didn't die from our earlier fun. That wouldn't do at all."
Earlier fun? Kimber wracked her fuzzy brain trying to remember what happened. After the mind-numbing sex, and some heart wrenching cuddling and love words in Gaelic, she had tumbled off into dreamland in Hart's arms and...
What? She couldn't remember. Glancing down at herself, she saw that she was still naked. There were bruises on her hips and thighs, but those she remembered earning with Hart earlier. A trickle of blood had dried in a pair of thin lines down her torso and disappeared into her pubic hair. Her neck ached, and she realized where the blood must have come from. Oh, this was not good. If Hart came and saw her like this, he was going to freak. Dirk the Jerk had bitten her!
She lifted her head, meeting his eyes with defiance, but said nothing. Her only job now was to w
ait.
Wait? God, all her life she'd fought not to be the doormat she seemed born to be. She was always so easy going, so compliant. Most of the few men she'd dated either couldn't stand her submissiveness, or took advantage of it in ways that left her heart bruised to the point that she'd come to prefer fantasy men to real ones. Until Hart. In the short time she'd known him, she'd learned that while he honored her desire for domination, he also empowered her with his trust, giving her the strength to take what she wanted as well.
Did everybody get philosophical when they were chained to a wall?
Dirk laughed. “I can hear your busy little mind at work. How did you get here? Why are you not dead—didn't you hear my head hit the floor in your home? When will Hart the Hero arrive to save you from my evil clutches once again? Well, my dear, I will happily answer all of those for you before I devour you and collect on the promised bounty you withheld from me when you conjured me under false pretenses.” Off her terrified look, he added, “Oh, yes, little human. I'm going to suck you dry and leave your husk to rot. And since you've been so duplicitous, I won't even bother making it pleasant for you as I might have if you'd delivered in the first place."
"I didn't know I was conjuring you, okay?” she cried, her fear getting the better of her. “I didn't even know things like you existed before!"
He waved away your observation. “Will and intent mean nothing. Now, as to your other questions: You got here because I drank your blood, put you under my thrall, and carried you. I was not dead, but Campbell destroyed the shell I was using at the time. My essence, for lack of a better term, was sent to what you humans would call Hell. A prison for my kind, and none too pleasant, I might add. As to why I am not still incarcerated there, well,” he gave a cruel chuckle, “I should say that something nasty has happened to our dear Guardian Campbell, as his powers have been voided, and their fruits set free. The same will happen to the rest, one by one. Which leads to your final question—when will your hero arrive and snatch you from the clutches of grisly death? I do believe that answer is, ‘never'. A Guardian's power can't be broken, to my knowledge, except by death. Although ... I suppose he might have been defrocked for taking up with you...” He tapped his chin as if lost in thought.
She watched in growing horror as his words sunk in. Hart had said he had broken the rules by getting involved with her when he was supposed to protect her. But he hadn't said what his Council would do about it. Had they taken away his powers? Or worse, executed him?
Dirk shrugged his enormous shoulders. “Either way, it matters not. He can't save you, even if he does manage to follow the trail we left behind. All that stands between you and slow, draining pain and death is my indecision as to how most to hurt you. If he arrives while I work, well, I'll have to think of something clever to do to him as well, won't I?"
The demon looked so damned pleased with himself, it lit a fire in her spirit and made her struggle against the chains that bound her to the stone wall. She kicked and wriggled, but the only result was bigger gouges on her wrist, which spilled forth a new wash of blood down her arms.
Her captor smiled hungrily, his pink tongue lashing over full lips in anticipation. He stepped to where she hung and took a moment to lap some of the blood away from her arm. She shuddered in revulsion.
"Mmm,” he moaned. “You are tasty. Maybe I'll skip the creative stuff and just suck you down like a juice box."
"Step away from my mate, uilebheist,” Hart growled. “And face me if ye dare."
Dirk rolled his eyes and turned to face Hart, who entered the cave armed with a sword as big as she was. The sight of him filled her with a relief that turned her whole body to mush. She stopped struggling.
"Or you'll do what, pray?” Dirk claimed an equally large sword from a pile of weapons and tools beside the stone altar and hefted it easily in one hand. “Poke me with your little stick? We all know you're not a Guardian anymore, or I wouldn't be here. And if you've been stripped of your title, that means you're just a plain old incubus, weaker and less powerful than I. So if you've come for some weak posturing before I skewer you and then have my way with your so-called mate, I'll be happy to oblige you. Otherwise...” He swung hard with his sword, nicking Hart across the abdomen and spraying the far wall with his blood. “I'll just slaughter you and be done with it."
Hart didn't bait easily—he knew what he was doing. He smiled, ignoring the wound, and moved backward from his opponent, claymore still in hand.
"I was a warrior long before I was a Guardian, van Ouwe. Powers or no, I'll have your head before this night is done."
Okay, there was no doubt that it was wrong that hearing that made her wet. Kimber wriggled in her bindings, rubbing her legs together as she watched the two gorgeous demons fight.
A few more quips and parries in which they looked well-matched in muscle and wit, and then the battle began in an explosion of clanging swords, masculine shouts, and the occasional, nauseating grunt in response to a blade striking flesh. After a while, both incubi were so bloody and filthy, Kimber couldn't tell who was winning.
Until Hart stumbled to one knee. Dirk gave a cry of triumph and raised his sword for the killing blow.
"No! Hart!” Kimber screamed, yanking against her shackles. Blood poured freely from her wrists now, and she had the sudden terrifying thought that she might bleed to death before the fight was over.
But the scent of her blood in the air seemed to fire Hart to fight once again. He jerked to his feet, beaten and bloody, and with a roar, charged head on into his opponent, driving him across the chamber and straight toward the wall where Kimber was chained.
Certain she was about to get run through, she watched them come, only to bash to the wall a few feet to her right. She jerked around just in time to see Dirk plough the hilt of his sword straight down on Hart's skull. The brutal hit made a dull, wet thud, and sent Hart crashing face first into the floor.
Dirk roared with triumph even as he backed away from his defeated foe. Kimber saw nothing but the red of rage pouring over her vision, as if the blood gushing from Hart's head were mirrored on her own. With a banshee shriek, she swung herself up by her manacles, kicking her feet up to land solidly on either of Dirk's shoulders. For the second time that day, she put her thigh-cruncher-trained legs to good use by clenching them around the demon's throat and wrenching him inward toward her body. Dirk screamed curses at her, clawing at her knees with dagger-sharp fingernails, but Kimber ignored the pain and focused every ounce of anger, strength and will into her legs. She squeezed harder than any workout had ever demanded, until she heard the demon choke and his flailing began to weaken as she cut off his air. She clamped her knees around his ears and gave her body a painful twist to the left, all the pressure and weight focused on the most vulnerable part of his vertebrae. A sharp crack echoed in the air, and Dirk fell into a heap beside Hart.
Leaving her chained still to the wall. She screamed in frustration, struggling against her bindings until her bloody wrists wrenched out of the loosened cuffs, and she fell. Unable to get her legs beneath her, she crawled to where Hart lay crumpled against the wall in a pool of his own blood.
"Oh, God. Ohgodohgodohgod,” Kimber sobbed, scooping him into her arms, trying to mop some of the blood from his beautiful face. “Hart? Hart, wake up. Please."
His green eyes flickered open, and he gave her a weak smile. “Ciamar a tha hu, mo cridhe? A sgiùnach. How are you, my love? My warrior woman.” He chuckled, thick, black blood dribbling from his mouth as he did.
"Sh. Hart...” She could feel him fading, slipping away from her as surely as she could feel her own blood dribbling down her arms, pooling in the crook of her elbow where she cradled his head.
Then it hit her. Blood and sex. Wasn't that the way the incubi fed? Life force and ecstasy. Yes! Gently but quickly, Kimber braced Hart's limp form against the wall so that he was sitting up. She straddled his lap and clasped his face in her hands.
"Hart? Listen. Can you
hear me? Open your eyes."
He obeyed, but she could see that he was only barely focusing on her. He reached up to touch her face, but his hand fell back into his lap.
Damn it, here she was, selflessly pulling a Buffy, and he couldn't even stay awake long enough to enjoy it. Kimber fished around in his thick leather belt until she found the sharp little knife she knew he kept tucked in the back, under the folds of his kilt. She took the cold blade and forced it into the already raw wound on one of her wrists, letting the blood flow freely, then held the gory limb up to his mouth. In typical movie fashion, he didn't respond for a handful of thundering heartbeats. Then agony like nothing she'd ever felt before ripped through her body as he clamped his jaws down and began to feed. At first he gulped like an animal, insensible to her cries of pain as she leaned hard against his chest, but once her blood poured into him, he seemed to regain some of his sanity. In a single heartbeat, the gut-wrenching agony turned into rapture. She felt his cock stir to life against her center, and she moved just enough to let him slide inside her.
They moaned in unison, their hurts blending with the bliss of their union. He let go of her wrist, gathered her close in his arms, and whispered in her ear.
"My brave warrior, how I love you."
"I love you too,” she told him, riding him slow and languid.
"More,” he gasped, clutching her waist and pulling away to look into her eyes. “I need more of you."
Kimber had no idea how he could get more of her, since he was driven so deep inside her that she thought one good thrust might send him through the top of her head. Then she noticed his usually nice, blunt white teeth had sprouted fangs.
Right. She'd almost forgotten about the blood. Which she figured must have something to do with the magick that had turned her pain to this unbelievable happiness.
And she was getting distracted again. “You want ... more blood?"
Hart nodded, and she felt him pulse inside of her. He looked around, then with a superhuman heave, got to his feet with her still astride his waist and waddled across the room, earning a giggle from Kimber, who felt very much like she'd fallen down the rabbit hole into a big bottle of wine. Hart grinned as he set her rear down on the edge of the altar where only a little while before, she'd thought she was going to be impaled.